The Moment

I watched a show recently featuring a woman character who had Alzheimer’s. In one particular scene she was seated with her husband and their friend. Her speech was mostly non-sensical, jumping from her plans to buy Christmas presents to a long story about her dog, to repeating the same question about what was for dinner over and over and over again. Then, for a brief moment, she was lucid, she recognized everyone in the room, was completely aware of the day and time, and everything “clicked.” And just as soon as it happened, the moment was over, and she was gone.

I was reminded immediately of my mother, whose mental illness and reluctance to treat it properly has left her much the same way. In the years I’ve spent processing and overcoming the trauma of my childhood, my therapist has encouraged me to “appreciate the moments” I have with her. I think of it as capturing a firefly, or a chrysalis in hopes of watching it transform into a butterfly. And when I was younger, and even into my young adult years, I’d cling on these moments, trying to capture and bottle them in hope that my mother would “come to.” I hoped that one of these moments would finally be it, the realization of what I needed would be there, and we could have the kind of supportive relationship I’ve always wanted. But with time came realization, and with realization came acceptance, and with acceptance came strength and forgiveness.

On Mother’s Day last year, I experienced one of the rare moments. My mother’s not usually able to access emotion very well in terms of discussion. Sure, she’ll go on wild sprees of euphoria and happiness while manic, but talking about feelings isn’t something she’s able to do comfortably and happens once in a blue moon, or maybe even less often. But last Mother’s Day, while I was living close to her, I called her to ask her if she wanted to get together.

“Happy Mother’s Day,” I said.

“Thanks Doria,” she said. She sounded sad. This also doesn’t happen often, as her illness typically manifests itself with her flying high as a kite as happy as can be, an alternative reality she’s created which I’d have to assume is more fun that the reality of what life’s given her.

“Are you okay?” I asked. Her voiced cracked, and she quietly started to cry.

“I was a terrible mother,” she said.

I didn’t disagree, but I hadn’t quite prepared myself for this response, and I asked her to come over.

She was right. My mind flashed back to her absence at my high school graduation, the times she’d leave $20 on the table and disappear for a few days, and the time she kidnapped my sister in an effort to prevent DSS from taking custody of her. This, like many of her plans, clearly backfired, as kidnapping your child is a surefire way to prove you probably shouldn’t be responsible for taking care of her.

But that Mother’s Day afternoon, she was my mother. She came over. We cooked food. She talked to me openly about the guilt she carries with her, how she understands how terrible the effects of mental illness are on children who experience them. She told me how discussing feelings was really hard for her, how growing up in a family with 7 siblings didn’t leave a lot of room for lengthy discussions about emotions, and those types of conversations weren’t encouraged. And although my grandparents were loving parents, their attitude toward most things, as was common in that generation, was: “You’re not dying, it could always be worse, suck it up and move on.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” I said.

“It’s really not okay, and I hope that you can forgive me,” she said.

“I already have,” I said. And it was the truth. I thought of how hard I’ve worked to overcome, my accomplishments and courage in spite of it all, and the incredible strength that’s blossomed from adversity.

We rarely see eye to eye on anything-me searching for a method to her madness, and her seeking constant escape. But that afternoon, we talked, like mothers and daughters do. And we laughed, like mothers and daughters do. She left that afternoon and unlike I might have done years earlier, I didn’t chase that version of her, the woman who I needed to be my mother. I didn’t try to bottle up the moment. I let it go. I understood that it was a moment, and I appreciated it for what it was.

Less than a month later, my mother was gone. She’d once again stopped taking her medication, I started getting jarbled text messages at 4am. She disappeared, nobody could find her for a few days. She ended up getting admitted to the hospital. It’s the standard drill, one I’m all too familiar with at this point, one I’ve finally accepted won’t change, and that despite my efforts, I can’t fix.

It snowed recently where I’m living, it doesn’t happen often here, and doesn’t really accumulate, just falls and covers nature like a blanket. I sat in a room with big windows overlooking a creek. I watched the snow fall gently, softly, swirling against the backdrop of large Evergreen trees. It was calm, peaceful and I wondered what it might be like to capture it and make it last forever.

The moment was beautiful. And just like that, it was gone.